Is it fair to judge a novelist based on a set of short stories? The immediate answer is, of course, yes: successful short fiction requires many of the elements that shape and create compelling long-form narratives. It is often argued that short stories need more finesse and a defter touch; all components need to be working well in the miniature format, whereas long fiction writers have the comparative luxury of being forgiven a clunky turn of phrase or a run of a few unengaging pages. If brevity is the soul of wit, then short fiction raises the bar of expectation simply by limiting its word count.

I offer this ruminative prologue to introduce Appleby Talking (1954), a collection of 23 short (some of them very short, running only around five pages) stories by author Michael Innes featuring his most famous detective, Sir John Appleby.

Innes, as John Innes Mackintosh Stewart, taught English Literature at Oxford for decades, and his mystery stories often feature academic settings and incorporate playful literary references and allusions. I must confess that I have not read a single one of the author’s many full-length novels, which began with Death at the President’s Lodging in 1936, and after which dozens more followed during the next five decades. I’m also trying to hedge my bets in the event that the weaknesses or frustrations that occurred for me with some of these stories might be addressed and attended to when Innes has a larger literary canvas to work on, to mix artistic metaphors.

True to its title, the stories in Appleby Talking feature the thoughtful detective recounting memorable (and sometimes far-fetched) cases to a small but appreciative audience. The Vicar, the Doctor, or the QC brings up a news item about a robbery or murder that just occurred, that reference in turn reminds Appleby of a curious affair from his own experience, and we’re off.

There’s a lot to recommend in Innes’s writing, as the short pieces collected here showcase imaginative and inspired scenarios that often turn on a clever clue or a curious paradox. Someone sees a Stone Age man in the mouth of a cave during a village fête. A dead man is found on beach rocks, with only one set of limping footsteps in the sand leading to the body. And lights go off during a college anatomy lesson; when they return, the freshly deceased professor has switched roles with the now-missing cadaver. With nearly two dozen short crime stories here, I was impressed with Innes’s ability to consistently craft intriguing premises over just a few introductory pages.

And while all the stories are entertaining, many of them made me wish that these compelling constructions had been explored more leisurely. This is where my key frustration with Appleby Talking lies: many of the shorter pieces feel rushed, with their details merely glossed over rather than carefully developed. The reading of these clever tales was frustrating because of the fact that the concepts and scenarios were so promising; I wanted further exploration in order for the story and its teller to achieve the best effect.

Beware the Ides of Innes.

Take, for example, the two Shakespeare-inspired murders presented here. One details the onstage assassination of the luckless actor playing Julius Caesar (“Imperious Caesar”); the other (“Tragedy of a Handkerchief”) finds a cheating Desdemona lifeless by curtain-fall. Both accounts are related in simplified, engaging fashion by Appleby, reduced to post-prandial anecdotes by the educated detective. Innes and his raconteur choose not to bother with too many details, including the real names of any of the actors. Instead, they are referred to only by their character names. While the economy of presentation is understandable, the stories and the tragedies inherent in them don’t really resonate because the characters are at the service of the speaker. It keeps matters superficial, and the result is that most stories here feel more like outlines or plot pitches than fully developed and memorable events.

I’m likely also reacting to the Inspector’s way of relating the tales, which to me strikes notes of desultory conversation and disposable incident. In other words, if an author chooses to present puzzle, solution, and dénouement in the span of five pages, there may not be space available to do more than provide a blueprint of a plot that could become something greater with a little fleshing out. Perhaps it’s the writer in me, envying Innes’ apparent facility for premises and clues, jealous that he can afford to present his inspirations in sketches instead of incorporated into more fully drawn stories. But sketches appear to be the intention, and although some stories left me wanting more, they may be perfect bite-sized snacks for other mystery readers looking for something elegant and light.

It’s no surprise, then, that two of the most effective stories for me were also of a longer length. With “Lesson in Anatomy” – the story of the murdered professor and the missing cadaver – Innes uses the additional pages to develop tone and characters while giving Appleby time to actually investigate instead of simply inferring a conclusion through brief observation. (“Lesson” is also one of the few stories here that does not use the anecdote-for-an-audience framing device, and it benefits from that difference.) And in the novella-length “Dead Man’s Shoes,” the Inspector looks into a curious, twisty case that begins with mismatched shoes and ends in a smart reveal anchored in authorial misdirection. Perhaps the conclusion is simply this: I owe it to Michael Innes to sample more of his writing, and to see what he can do with one novel-length story instead of 23 too brief but promising little ones.

Agora Books has released this short story collection (as Appleby Talks) in digital and print editions for a new generation of mystery fans to find. I thank them for sharing this title with me through NetGalley in exchange for an honest review. Agora Books has released many great Golden Age books to date, including titles by Margery Allingham, Nicholas Blake, and Richard Hull, all worth a look!